Coma (Slowly Editing)

Day 5

I woke up feeling warm. My room was dark and the clock by bedside read that it was a little after midnight. I hadn’t realised I had fallen asleep. The last thing I remembered doing was watching Hachiko with Seymour. I couldn't hear him or anything, so he must have left when after the movied ended or something. Whatever. I yawn, shifting around my pillow, trying to get more comfortable. My sheets were dangling down from the side of the bed and Kiko, the stuffed monkey I always kept on my bed, was lying on the floor, staring up at me morosely. I should probably pick it up. Probably. But the bed felt nice and soft and I felt too lazy to lift my head. I’ll save you Kiko…in the morning. I closed my eyes and squirmed some more, searching for a more comfortable position. My pillow felt strange for some reason and –  

“Stop moving so much,” a familiar voice said.

“No, you stop moving so – ” I mumbled and then paused. Waaait a minute...

I opened my eyes a crack and

Double. Wham. Bam.

Holy cheese balls.

Seymour Harris was staring down at me. My head was resting across his stomach and he had his hands wrapped around my fingers, which were holding an old copy of Jeffrey Eugenide’s The Virgin Suicides.

“I can't use your hands to hold the book if you're moving so much,” he said, speaking normally as though this wasn’t unusual and that WE WEREN’T JUST LYING TOGETHER IN MY BED. LIKE A COUPLE. “Which reminds, Annalise Bell, that if this is the kind of books you’re reading, it’s no wonder you don’t have any friends.”

“I…I…” I stuttered, because he was Seymour freaking Harris and even though I was starting to get used to having him around, I wasn’t used to waking up wrapped around him like a pretzel.

“Cat’s got your tongue?” he asked, raising a brow at me.

“I…I’ve got friends!” I spluttered. I should probably sit up and move away. Probably. “Plus, Jeffrey Eugenide is an excellent writer.”

“Right,” Seymour said, frowning. He twirled a strand of my hair around his finger absentmindedly and I tried not to look too much as though I was enjoying it. “What’s so excellent about a man who advocates suicide? This is stupid.”

“He’s not advocating suicide!” I huffed. I plucked the book from his finger and flipped over around examplarily. “Look! Look at the reviews.”

“They don’t mean anything.”

“’course they do! This isn’t just about suicide! This is about the fact that every person’s perceived idea of humane needs is different.” I sat up agitatedly. “Mrs. Lisbon needs the girls to never leave her sight. Cecilia thinks she shouldn’t live, she needs to be let out of her life. Lux wants to be loved and needs to get away from her mother. The boys idolized the girls and they need to find out anything they could about. You know that whole Marslow Hierchy of Needs bullshit? It means nothing here. The girls don’t need food; they needed freedom. And it was the lack of freedom that killed them.”

“Look at you,” Seymour said. “Getting all philosophical.”

I felt my cheeks heat up. “I was trying to make a point, that’s all. This book isn’t stupid.”

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, grinning. “It isn’t stupid. It’s the most wonderful book in the entire universe.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me,” I grumbled. Seymour laughed.

“Aw, but it’s only because you’re pretty funny when you’re riled up.” He reached out and tugged at my hands, pulling me back down. Breath, Anna. Drooling on a boy is not sexy. I rested back down, this time closer to his chest than his stomach.